


Happy Birthday, John

by doctorsdaughter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cake, Cheesy, Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade - Freeform, John - Freeform, John's a Doctor, John's blog, M/M, Mentions of Irene Adler - Freeform, Mentions of Mary, Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Presents, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, The Great Game, The Reichenbach Fall, The Woman - Freeform, john's birthday!, the lady in pink, the last vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorsdaughter/pseuds/doctorsdaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's John's Birthday! How will Sherlock prepare?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Up_A_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Mom.

If you looked up Sherlock’s Google history, it would normally have the following

Riding Crops  
Chinese symbols  
botox  
TheWhipHand  
Placebo Effect  
How to fake your own death (it had to start somewhere)  
How to tell your friend you faked your own death  
Multiple searches about best man speeches  
JIM MORITARTY  
tobacco ash in different locations in London

...or something of that sort. 

But for the last five days, Sherlock’s Google history had been reduced to how to throw a birthday party, and had been looking at various themes for parties ranging from Doctor Who (includes a free ticket to the Doctor Who museum in Cardiff!) to parties where it seemed that everyone dressed in scantily clad clothing called ‘tupperware’ parties. Which was odd, what would they need tupperware for?

Despite John’s love of Doctor Who - and his love of intercourse even more - he decided neither were right. He decided to call on the one ‘normal’ person he knew would know at least a thing or two about parties. 

To Molly: 911! EMERGENCY! NEED YOU. NOW.  
To Sherlock: I’ll be there in an hour.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and continued his searches. Cowboys in Space? No. Murder Mystery? John would certainly appreciate the sentiment, but no. 

An hour slowly ticked by, and soon Molly was knocking on 221B, only to be greeted by Mrs. Hudson. 

“Oh, hello dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I assumed he called on your help as well? I tried to tell him me and the girls could get back together and have a grand old time bringing John back to the sixties, but apparently with a bum hip and very little herbal soothers left, that idea was knocked out right away.”

Molly, of course, didn’t get a word in edgewise as she walked up the steps, Mrs. Hudson going on about the good old days where she danced for her husband’s club/drug cartel. Neither Molly or Sherlock needed the details, so Mrs. Hudson was reduced to a small muffling as the door was shut.  
“Okay, what’s the emergency?” Molly said, sitting on the couch where Sherlock had made a considerable dent in the cushions, folding her legs underneath her as her hair covered about half her face, immediately brushed away.

“As I’m sure you know John’s birthday is coming up,” Sherlock said, not looking up from the screen.

Molly’s eyes widened a little. “Yeah, sure, I did, bit surprised you do though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I was going to delete it and then decided for the good of the friendship, not to.”

“Sherlock, you can say relationship, we all know,” Molly said, but was silenced by the waving of Sherlock’s hand.

“I’ve searched up about everything I can think of and nothing is coming up,” Sherlock said.

“Well, why don’t you do what normal blokes do? Take him to a pub and get him drunk,” Molly shrugged. This seemed to be what everyone does. He didn’t want John to have what everyone had.

“Yes, because the last time we did that it worked out well,” Sherlock muttered, eliciting a giggle from Molly.

“Well you’re not going to find what would work for John on a computer. Computers don’t have all the answers,” Molly said.

Sherlock stared at her as though she had said the earth had stopped moving (he had deleted the information about the Earth moving around the sun, so maybe that was overstating).

“Close the laptop,” Molly said, forcibly taking from Sherlock. “And think about John. What does John like?”

“Tea. Being a Doctor. Mary, I suppose, or he wouldn’t have married her,” Sherlock rattled off. “The flat--”

Molly looked. “There you go! Have a party at the flat! Invite everyone!”

“Everyone meaning--”

“Yes, you, me, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Maybe Mycroft if you’re lucky.”

“Mycroft doesn’t believe in birthdays.”  
“Of course he doesn’t.”

~*~

Over the next week, Molly had bought so many party supplies from plates with stethescopes on them, to banners that said Happy Birthday! (in an all too cheerful way of saying you’re one year closer to your death, Sherlock thought). Balloons, noise makers -- nothing was to be spared for John, according to Molly.

On the night of John’s party, where Lestrade had taken him to the pub to watch a match, Sherlock, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson immersed themselves in the bags and bags of party decorations. Within two hours, just as the match was ending, you could never tell that this flat would have seen more murders than most.

Though the bullet holes in the walls gave pause.

~*~

“You do have a present right?” Molly asked suddenly, staring at Sherlock. It would be like Sherlock to do all this, and find some way to excuse himself of the idea of a present.

“Yes, I have a present,” Sherlock said.

“An actual proper present!?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “Will we blush?”

Sherlock covered his face and shook his head in annoyance. “Mrs. Hudson, just because John and I have started engaging in sexual activities--” which earned an ear cover from Molly “doesn’t mean that’s all we think about. I have an actual, proper present that I believe John will enjoy.”

No one would be sure if Mrs. Hudson was convinced.

~*~

They heard Lestrade and John stumble up the stairs -- yes, a pub would have been a bad idea -- and the door opened and Molly and Mrs. Hudson blew on their noisemaker. Sherlock was grinning as well, his eyes focused on John’s reaction. 

“You--” John said, looking at Sherlock. “You weren’t working on trying to hit 300 types of tobacco ash!”

Sherlock had to laugh at that. “No, I wasn’t, John. Happy Birthday.”

John hugged Sherlock in a bone-crushing hug, before doing the same to everyone else. Mrs. Hudson soon brought out the cake, which everyone seemed to enjoy immensely, including John who would feel the consequences of the four slices he ate.

“Oi! It’s my party, I’ll eat if I want to,” John said, getting a laugh from Lestrade, though the allusion to the song went over Sherlock’s head.

After the plates were cleared and everyone was full to the burst (apparently calories don’t count on birthdays. Apparently they also don’t count on any holiday, and any time the person doesn’t want them to), Lestrade announced that it was present time.

This was the part that Sherlock dreaded. He had decided to make something for John, but it was obvious he was severely lacking in the creativity department of his brain. This could go very good, or very badly.

Lestrade got John tickets to a football match on the condition that “he knows who to take!”. Molly got John a full first aid kit, the real kind, with everything from surgical sutures to IV kits. Mrs. Hudson, only got him a card, but by the redness of his face, it looked as though the card held more than just a letter, and maybe Mrs. Hudson wasn’t as running low on her herbal soothers than she let on.

Finally it was Sherlock’s turn. He picked up the largest package on the table, and handed it to John, who gave him a questioning look. He started to open it, and inside was a photo album. Inside, there were mementos from each case that had a sentimental connection to them. 

A patch of pink fabric, orange pips, a picture of Sherlock after John had punched him, Sherlock’s obituary, a letter from Major Scholt, and a small pink socks for John’s daughter - due any day now. Each page also held print outs from John’s blog, with Sherlock’s commentary in red pen on the side. 

John slowly put the book down as if it were the most precious thing in the universe, and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Sherlock...you are…”

Sherlock waited to hear the rest of his sentence.

“A wonderful friend. And an even better boyfriend.”

John stood up and hugged him again, though this time it was warm, filled with love. Jon kissed the spot over Sherlock’s heart, and then Sherlock. 

“Does that mean you like it?”  
“No, you idiot. I love it.”

~*~

After a birthday shag (Sherlock had learned that was customary), he and John stayed tangled together, watching each other, their hands ghosting over each others bodies.

“Did you have a good birthday?”

“The best one in years.”


End file.
